Title: Crenshaw Mansion
Author: Vickie Moseley (teaser and story concept
by Sally Bahnsen)
Summary: Investigating the disappearance of a
Forestry employee, Mulder and Scully stumble on a
horrible secret that almost separates them forever.
Written for Virtual Season 12
http://virtualseasonx.org/season-12/
Archives: two weeks exclusive with VS 12, after
that, yes
Disclaimer: I don't own the Mansion, the state
bought it a couple of years ago. I don't own Mulder
and Scully, Carter keeps them chained in his attic. I
do pay taxes in this state, so I guess I'm part owner
of Ferne Clyffe State Park (yes that is the correct
spelling) and as pretty as that place is, I'll be happy
with that. No copyright infringement intended.
Dedicated: To Sally, for helping me hammer all
this out. I love ya! Kisses for Mary for lightning
fast beta while packing for Media West. Big
Chocolate Mulders for Lisa, for finding shackles
and carriages with tops. And for the rest of the
VSX crew, Donnaj, T, Martin -- you guys keep me
sane.
Author's notes at the end.
Crenshaw Mansion
Teaser
It stood like a lone citadel high on a hill overlooking
a patchwork quilt of fields surrounding the small
township of Gallatin County.
Tom Coleman steered the Forestry pick-up onto the
access road leading to Crenshaw Mansion, the back
tires kicking up a spray of gravel as they fought for
traction on the steep driveway. "The sooner they get
this place sealed, the better." He mumbled to
himself.
Reaching the area proposed by local government for
the new parking lot, he veered to the right, coming
to a stop outside the three-story building. A shiver
ran down his spine. Ever since he was a kid this
place had given him the creeps. Tall tales of ghosts
and demons haunting the house had fed his vivid
childish imagination, filling his dreams with
frightening images of giant black poltergeists
roaming the halls, their chain-linked feet scraping
on wooden floorboards as they cried for freedom.
When his cell phone rang he jumped in fright and
threw himself against the driver's door before
realizing the only danger he was likely to
experience was from his girlfriend Beckie if he
didn't make it home in time for dinner.
He flipped open his cell phone, feeling somewhat
foolish at his over reaction. "Hi, hon. One hour. I
promise."
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before." He could hear
the smile in her voice, but knew better than to be
fooled into complacency by her easy going manner.
Rebecca Murphy's gentle lilt could shift to that of a
raving banshee in a matter of seconds if pushed the
wrong way. But Tom had a knack for heading her
off at the pass. She was beautiful when she was
angry. Beautiful when smiling, asleep, crying,
laughing, and he was counting the days before he
would make her his wife.
"I swear, Beck, this is my last stop. I just gotta sign
off at the office and then I'll be home. Get the fire
started and the wine cooled, I'm practically on my
way."
"You better be."
"I promise. Now, if you'll stop yacking at me, I'll be
a lot quicker. See you soon, I love you."
"Love you, too. Be careful."
"Always."
He disconnected with a loopy grin plastered on his
face. With some luck he'd have the job finished
within ten minutes and be home well inside the hour
he'd promised.
Pacing out the eastern perimeter, Tom checked his
watch and smiled to himself. He'd make it with time
to spare, might even have time to stop on the way
home and surprise Beckie with a bunch of flowers.
A small gesture to ease ruffled feathers caused by
too many late night budget and planning meetings
to get the proposed parking lot underway.
A sudden bolt of lightening split the early evening
sky in two, followed immediately by a loud clap of
thunder. Tom peered at the dark clouds rolling in
from the north. If he didn't get moving he was going
to end up with a wet ass. He pulled his jacket tighter
around his body and lifted the collar to protect his
ears and neck from the squalling wind. He was
within 20 or 30 yards of finishing up when the first
raindrops landed on his head. It was only seconds
before the heavens opened up dumping gallons of
torrential rain from above.
Tom made a run for it. His pick-up was parked on
the western side of the building; he'd be soaked
through before he could make it even half way
there. Sprinting hard, he took the steps leading to
the old mansion two at a time seeking shelter on the
porch. The wind picked up, whipping his hair and
tugging at this jacket. Rain pelted underneath the
eaves, giant drops creating a horizontal sheet of
water drumming against the front of the house and
soaking Tom to his skin. In desperation he grabbed
at the door handle giving it an experimental tug. To
his surprise the door swung open, its creaking
hinges barely audible over the torrent of rain. He
stepped through to the foyer, slamming the door
shut behind him and leaned against the solid oak,
feeling it rattling against his body as he fought to
catch his breath.
Outside the storm raged sending another bolt of
lightening arcing across the sky, its brief
illumination giving Tom a chance to check out his
surroundings. The foyer was a short rectangular
shape, a small hallway leading to the back of the
house. Tom's immediate thought was that the house
seemed to be split in two by some kind of time
warp. On the left he saw a door and a staircase
leading to an upper level, its design every bit in
keeping with architecture of the late 1800s.
However, in stark contrast to the period style setting
of left, the right side was every bit as modern as the
left was old. Tom could just make out a single door
opposite the staircase. But what really caught his
attention was the glow of light coming from the
second floor.
That didn't seem right. As far as he knew no one
had lived in the old Crenshaw mansion for years. It
had become a popular tourist attraction both with
locals and visitors, hence the need for a new
improved parking lot.
Slowly, he moved towards the staircase.
"Hello? Is anyone up there?" Apart from the howl
of the wind he was greeted with silence.
"Hello!" He tried again, this time cautiously
ascending the stairs one at a time. Still there was no
answer. "My name is Tom Coleman. I'm a Ranger
with the Forestry Service. Is anyone up there?"
Each step upwards emitted a long creak of protest
from the stairs. Tom had never been inside the
house and quite frankly he was beginning to wish
he wasn't there now. The hair on the back of his
neck tingled and he could feel his heart hammering
against his chest.
When he finally reached the second floor he was
greeted with a scene reminiscent of an old western
movie. It was as if he'd been transported back in
time a hundred and fifty years. The light that had
been visible from the foyer was not electric, but
instead originated from a series of candelabras
attached to the walls on both sides of the hallway.
The flames flickered almost to extinction then
flared to life again, as a gust of wind swept down
the hallway.
"Hello! Is anyone there?" Tom made his way
tentatively along the second floor, another gust of
wind blew through an open window at the end of
the hallway momentarily dousing the flames to
almost nothing. Tom moved towards the window
intending to close it before the candles were snuffed
out completely. He was only a few feet from the
window when he heard a noise behind him.
Turning, his eyes widened with shock and a scream
caught in the back of his throat as a wooden bat
connected with his head. Tom slumped to the
ground, blood oozing from a cut just behind his left
ear.
Act I Scene 1
The sun was shining brightly in the cloudless blue
sky. If Mulder closed his eyes, feeling the hot sun
on his face, he could almost envision a summer's
day. A strong gust of wind brought a flurry of dried
oak leaves to swirl near his face and brought him
back to reality. It was still spring, even in far
Southern Illinois. The temperature was a 'balmy' 40
degrees and he shuddered inside his charcoal suit
coat when the gust brought that down closer to 20.
The house before him was impressive in the bright
sunlight. It was painted red and he wondered if it
had always been red, even when first built. It gave
off a quality of opulence that was missing from the
small towns and farm fields of Gallatin County. A
three-story manse, set on the very top of one of the
tallest hills, made for a curiosity, if not a tourist site.
When the history of the house was told, it held a
natural, as well as unnatural, attraction.
Mulder fumbled in the pocket of his suit jacket and
withdrew the brochure he'd found at a rest stop on
Interstate 24 on his way up from the Paducah, KY
airport. "Slave House", the cover screamed in the
old B movie poster font of Vincent Price and Ed
Wood features. The house before him was
prominently featured on the cover as well as a short
summary. Inside, pictures of the house, each floor,
but particularly the third floor, spelled out the
history of the mansion. Owned by one John
Crenshaw before and during the Civil War, the
house was once a stop on the reverse 'Underground
Railway'. Instead of helping slaves escape their
captors and find freedom in the northern states, this
house was a collecting station for runaways who
were then returned to their captivity in the south.
Mulder was just beginning to read when his cell
phone trilled in his pocket. He took note of the ring
tone, 'Walking in Memphis' and smiled.
"Hey Scully," he said affably as he answered.
"How goes the autopsy?"
"That's why I'm calling. I may be a while. When
does my plane leave?"
He glanced at his watch. "2:45. The best Kim
could do was to get you on a flight into Evansville,
Indiana, but it's not a far drive. We end up with two
rental cars that way."
"Mulder, why don't you pick me up? Or can't you
tear yourself away from the ghosts in the attic?" she
teased lightly.
"Yeah, I could, you're right. But I did want to look
around a bit. Wait till you see this place, Scully.
It's got a real Norman Bates feel to it," he joked in
return.
"Just remember, we're there to find a missing
Forestry Service employee, not find the ghosts of
old slaves and slave owners," she reminded him.
"I remember," he said. "I left your ticket on the
desk, under the blotter. Give me a call when you
get to the airport and I'll pick you up."
"You better be there, Mulder. If I end up stranded
in Evansville, Indiana, for any length of time, you
will pay and pay dearly," she warned.
The sound of tires on the gravel drive alerted
Mulder to an approaching vehicle. "I gotta run,
Scully. I think the locals just arrived."
"Be nice, Mulder," she warned.
"I'm always nice," he shot back with a grin he knew
she knew he was wearing.
"OK, be _nicer_ than usual," she responded and his
grin grew to encompass his whole face.
"Just hurry, Scully. It's cold here without you."
Before she had a chance to respond, or before either
of them was forced to forego endearments because
of their very public locations, he disconnected the
line. A US Department of Interior Forestry Service
truck pulled into the parking area and stopped next
to his rented Ford. Mulder stood by the white gate
to the mansion and watched the uniformed
gentleman get out of the truck and come toward
him.
"Folk Mulder?" called out the tall man, early 50s
with a fringe of graying hair sticking out under his
dark green USFS cap.
"Fox, actually. Fox Mulder," the agent corrected.
"Ah," the man said with no apparent
embarrassment. "Went to school with a guy named
Folk. No 'Fox', though," he chuckled and held out
his hand in greeting. "Bob Miller, Forestry. Sure
am glad you decided to make the trip."
Mulder shook Miller's hand firmly. "When Interior
calls, the FBI really doesn't have much choice, does
it?"
Miller snorted and looked away. "That's what I
thought, till I talked to those deadheads up in
Springfield. Seems none of the regional offices
wanted to claim jurisdiction," he said around a
stream of tobacco juice that he managed to spit a
few feet from Mulder's shoes.
"Well, I'm here now and my partner will be joining
us as soon as she can get away from DC. Why don't
you fill me in on the disappearance."
"Sure. Let's go on up to the porch," Miller said and
opened the gate, walking fast. Mulder had little
trouble catching up.
"House has been in private ownership since it was
built. Crenshaw, that's John Crenshaw, built it back
in the 1830s. He made his money in the salt fields,
just down by the river. But his real money, folks
believe, came from returning escaped slaves.
'Course, there are no records of that, but that's not
unusual, since Illinois joined the Union as a free
state in 1818. Returning escaped slaves was
criminal activity in this state, even before the Civil
War. Didn't mean it wasn't lucrative, o' course."
They were standing on the front porch of the
mansion. It ran the length of the front of the
building and reached above them to the second
floor. "Slaves were reportedly kept in the third
floor attic, brought in during the night, held for a
while and then taken back across the river.
Landings just a few miles to the south."
"And no one reported it?" Mulder asked with a
smirk.
Miller returned the look. "Well, those were
different times, I tell ya. But no, no one reported
him. Since he was a fairly respected businessman,
most people turned a blind eye. But there were
some, mostly the abolitionist types, who would
have gladly handed him over to the authorities.
Still, there were never any charges. 'Course, he did
have some connections."
"Political, I take it," Mulder interjected.
Miller smiled broadly. "Why, Abe Lincoln himself
was supposed to have stopped right here and had
dinner with the local party when he was making the
run for the White House."
"I bet that's a story that got around."
"Not really. I think the Lincoln folks would just as
soon hide that one under a rug," Miller smirked.
Hearing its sordid past, the wood frame and
clapboard structure took on an ominous feel. "The
most recent owners lived here on the first floor and
opened the rest of the house up as a museum and
tourist attraction. Did real well for many years,
since we're right on US Route 45, the old main
south road from Chicago. But the new Interstates,
24 and 64, pretty much changed all that. And the
couple who owned it were getting up in years, were
having trouble with the maintenance of the place
and got the state to buy it and make a 'historic site'."
"How did Forestry get involved?" Mulder asked,
peering into one of the first floor windows. There
was nothing but gloom on the other side of the
glass.
"This land is all part of the Shawnee National
Forest," Miller explained, making a wide sweep of
the surrounding hills with his hand. "We run fire
towers, do maintenance work on the roads. State
asked us to look at that old parking lot out there and
see if we could chip in for a new paved lot. We do
that sort of thing from time to time, when the
budget allows."
"So we sent Tom, that's Tom Coleman, over to
check out the parking lot. Tom's a civil engineer,
used to do highway work. Can look at a patch of
dirt and tell you exactly how much concrete it'll
take to cover it. Anyways, a storm came up, as does
in these parts, and we're guessin' Tom ran up on the
porch. He didn't have a key, but when we came to
look for him, the front door was wide open. We
found his footsteps, it was pretty muddy that day,
all the way up the stairs to the second floor. Then,
they just disappear."
"Tell me a little about Tom?" Mulder asked.
Miller's eyes narrowed but he nodded in
compliance. "Tom's a good worker, top notch. Got
his engineering degree from Southern Illinois
University, over in Carbondale. He's been with the
Service now five years. He's the most reliable man
on my crew, which is why I sent him over by
himself to do this work. That, plus, as I said, he
used to do road work with IDOT in the summers
when he was in college."
"IDOT?"
"Illinois Department of Transportation. He knows
his stuff."
"He'd have no reason to 'just up and disappear',
then," Mulder concluded.
"No sir." Catching Mulder's glance toward the
windows, Miller shook his head. "Tom just bought
a house in Marion. I think he was getting ready to
propose to his girlfriend. She lives in Harrisburg --
right shook up about him missing."
Mulder felt a pang of guilt for pressing. He knew
how 'shook up' someone's disappearance could
make a person. Almost a decade had passed since
Scully's disappearance and it still haunted his
dreams. He was grateful that he could wake up and
pull her into his arms.
"Anyway, when he didn't show up back at the
office, me and another member of the crew came
over. Figured he had engine trouble with the truck.
We found the truck right here in the parking lot, and
no sign of Tom. We called the Sheriff and decided
to see if we couldn't find him around somewhere.
The front door was still open, so we went inside.
Looked all over the place, just found the footsteps.
But . . ." The man hesitated and looked
uncomfortable, failing to meet Mulder's questioning
gaze.
"But what, Mr. Miller?" the agent prodded.
"Well, I don't go in for all that spookster nonsense,
mind ya. Oh, it's great for the tourists and all, but
my feet are planted firmly on ole' Terra Firma, if
you get my drift."
"Sure, I understand," Mulder consoled.
"But as we were looking on the second floor, just as
we passed the stairs going up to the third, well,
damnedest thing . . ."
"Go on," Mulder prodded.
"I swear I heard Tom's voice. He was calling to me.
But we'd searched the third floor, the Sheriff had
gone up there, too. There was nothing there."
Miller took a deep breath. "I've lived in these parts
all my life. I knew the people who used to own this
place, my younger brother went to high school with
their son. I've spent many a fall afternoon with my
dogs hunting squirrel right over there," he pointed
to the stand of trees just down the hillside. "I never
thought anything about all the stories. But after
this, I think I might have changed my mind."
Mulder gave him a confused look.
"Agent Mulder, I will deny I said this to my dying
day, but I'll tell you. I'm beginning to think this
place really is haunted."
Act I scene 2
"Maybe we better take a look inside," Mulder
suggested, trying to shake off the chill that had
crawled up his back at Miller's comments.
"Sure thing. Got the key right here," Miller said
and produced a key on its own steel ring. The lock
was well worn and the door swung open with an
almost silent moan. Mulder peered into the gloom
from the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the
lights. He absently pulled a small maglight from his
pocket, Miller produced a larger flashlight from the
pocket of his jacket and they both proceeded into
the house.
There was a light switch by the door. Mulder
flipped it once, to no avail. "Electric's been off
since the old owners left," Miller explained.
Mulder shined his beam around the room, checking
the door. "Not much security," he muttered.
"Folks around these parts are generally honest. Get
a few trouble makers, but nobody stupid enough to
try and steal something outta a house like this."
"Maybe they should hire ghosts to guard houses in
the big city," Mulder said with a smirk. Miller
answered with a nervous chuckle. He flashed the
light along the right hand wall and let it rest on a
door in the center, a rather modern looking door.
"Entrance to the private residence," Miller
explained.
"The owners lived here?" Mulder asked. "Did they
know about the . . . ?"
"Ghosts? Sure! The lady of the house believed, the
man more or less said it was hogwash, to everyone
round these parts at least. But they made a good
livin' on the tourist trade comin' through. And to be
honest, they saved this old place. Not that many
people want a house this big, with this much past
history. If the previous owners hadn't lived here
and made it a tourist attraction, chances are we'd be
standing in an open field right now."
Miller pulled out another key ring and found
another key, unlocking the private residence. "They
updated the place a few years back," he told Mulder
as they walked through the rooms. A living room
with a fireplace and recently laid berber carpet
greeted them just inside the door. Through an
archway they found a modern kitchen with black
enamel appliances and a modern island with faux
stone countertop. There were two bedrooms, a
dining room and two baths in an addition on the
back of the house. The two men found nothing out
of the ordinary.
Mulder was feeling just a little foolish now that
they'd gone through what appeared to be a
remodeled, but stylish, old house. "Let's take a look
at the rest of the place," he said decisively.
The other rooms downstairs had obviously been
used for storage. The room at the back of the house
sported a large four-poster bed and nothing else.
"This is supposed to be the room Mr. Lincoln
stayed in when he visited," Miller explained.
A thick layer of dust covered the floors, revealing
no footprints. Mulder noticed the absence of
closets. "No closets? No place to hide?"
"Didn't have 'em back then. People used
'wardrobes' and dressers, highboys and the like.
There's some of 'em upstairs on the second floor, in
the 'restored' rooms."
"Then let's head up stairs," Mulder said easily.
The steps were old and creaked in several places as
they made their way to the second story of the
house. In the open hallway, Mulder first
encountered a low display case, exhibiting a number
of small bottles and boxes with a few pieces of
silver, tarnished with age. Hand printed signs gave
the names of the utensils and what the bottles held,
each dated. "There are some old pieces in this,"
Mulder commented. Miller nodded.
The rooms on the second floor held more
furnishings but these were by no means modern. A
formal parlor was set with china that looked very
old to Mulder. There was an old wardrobe, as
Miller had described, in one room and Mulder
searched it for signs of anything amiss. Each room
showed markings on the floor where the search
teams had already gone through.
Mulder stood in the hallway once again, scratching
his head. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a
small door to the left of the staircase they'd used to
come up from the first floor.
"The attic," Miller said solemnly. "Third floor. We
checked that too."
"Do you mind if I take a look?" Mulder asked but
had already started toward the door. A large
padlock hung from a hasp and he waited patiently
while Miller produced the correct key.
"Knock yourself out," Miller said, waving the agent
to go up the steps before him.
The stairwell was dark and musty smelling. A few
of the boards seemed soft and Mulder stepped
carefully over them, making his ascent rather
awkward. Miller came behind him, mimicking his
actions. When they finally made it to the third
floor, Mulder wasn't sure what to expect. What he
found was an empty attic, with small cubicles
running each long side of the house. Two windows,
opposite each other, broken out and wind howling
through them, gave the only light to the room.
"I thought you said they didn't have closets,"
Mulder commented as he flashed his maglight into
one of the cubicles.
"Those aren't closets. They're 'quarters'," Miller
said with a dour expression.
In each cubicle, three slats of wood created shelves,
approximately three feet across and not more than
five feet long. At the back wall, huge iron rings
were imbedded in the thick wood wall. A few of
the rings still had heavy iron chains attached.
"This is where they kept the poor bastards," Miller
said quietly.
Mulder reached out and hefted one of the chains. It
was heavy enough to keep a man from moving
much. A thought occurred to him and he hurriedly
searched every cubicle. Miller stood near the stairs,
watching the agent search.
"We looked up here, Agent Mulder. Believe me,
we searched the whole structure."
"Basement?" Mulder asked anxiously.
"Root cellar," Miller corrected. "We had the dogs
through too," he added, pointing to a paw print in
the dust and dirt on the floor. "Nothing."
"May I see the root cellar?"
"Sure. You done up here?" Miller asked.
"Yeah. I think so," Mulder admitted reluctantly.
Miller led the way down the steps, Mulder
following only after taking a long look around the
attic. The place felt cold, but with the broken
windows, he brushed it off as being the wind
blowing through the place. Scully's rubbing off on
you, he mused and that thought made him smile.
When had he stopped thinking first of the
paranormal and instead trying to come up with a
rational explanation? He couldn't wait to tell her
when he picked her up at the airport. Which meant
he had better check the root cellar and leave soon to
make it in time.
Miller locked the door with the padlock when they
reached the second floor. "Kids like to scare each
other, try stayin' the night up here. Set a fire one
night, almost burned the place down. Lucky thing,
we had a rainstorm blow through, rain put out the
fire. Best to keep the place locked and out of
temptation's path."
Miller's cell phone chirped and he patted down his
pockets until he located the noisy object. He spoke
into the receiver, squinting and moving around.
"Can't hear ya, ah hell," he said, finally hurrying
down the steps to find a better spot for reception.
Mulder started to follow, but didn't want to intrude
on the man's conversation. He was just starting
down the steps when he heard something. At first
he was certain it was the wind howling through the
open windows in the attic above, but it had a
different quality, one that raised the hairs on the
back of his neck. He heard it a second time and this
time it was accompanied by a scraping sound, like
one of the heavy chains being dragged across wood.
He was able to hone in on the sound the second
time he heard it. It was coming from the attic. He
stepped quickly over to the door that Miller had just
locked. He heard the sound again, much closer.
"Miller!" he yelled. "Mr. Miller, I need the key to
the attic!" Mulder called down, hoping the man
hadn't stepped too far away to hear him. "Miller, I
need that key!" he shouted again and moved toward
the stairs to hurry after the man.
He was right on the first step down when something
hard hit him in the back of the head. It stunned him,
but he reached for his gun and turned back to look
over his shoulder just in time to see a huge fist
coming straight at him. Then all was dark.
Act II scene 1
Evansville Regional Airport
Evansville, Indiana
4:00 pm
Scully stood at the baggage claim area and fumed
silently. Once more she put her cell phone to her
ear, pressing the send button twice. There was no
need to dial the number, she'd been calling the same
number during the 45-minute layover she
experienced in Detroit and for the 15 minutes since
her Northwest Airlines commuter plane had touched
down in Evansville. When her partner's voice mail
picked up, yet again, this time she decided to leave
a message.
"Mulder. I'm going to assume you are brave
enough to listen to this after seeing the dozen or
more missed calls coming from my number. This is
to inform you that you are now in deep shit for
failing to pick me up at the airport. I just wanted to
make sure you realize that you are sleeping in a
separate STATE tonight, not just a separate room.
And furthermore, you better figure out where you're
going to be sleeping for the next month, because it
will NOT be our bedroom. I think I saw an old
army cot down in the coal cellar. I'm sure you'll be
quite comfortable down there."
Just as she angrily pushed the button to disconnect
the call, her luggage appeared on the conveyor belt.
"At least one thing seems to be going right today,"
she growled low as she grabbed the handle of the
bag and lifted. The sickening sound of a separating
luggage zipper that had been on one too many X
files hit her ears mere seconds before the contents
of her bag spewed forth across the institutional grey
tile floor of the concourse.
"Shit!" she cried out only too late realizing that she
was in the midst of traveling families. "Sorry," she
muttered as more than one angry mother shot her a
dirty look and covered their child's ears. Hastily,
she scooped the wayward clothing back into the
bag, wrapping her arms around it to keep the
contents inside. With effort, she made her way to
the nearby rental car agency and with a calm born
only from years of working with Fox Mulder, she
rented a car and obtained directions to Harrisburg,
Illinois.
Once on the road, she glanced down at the phone
resting next to her on the empty passenger seat.
He'd turned it off. No, better yet, he'd let it run
down. That had to be the answer. Mulder had
forgotten, as always, to recharge his battery and as a
result, it was dead as a doornail, sitting in his pocket
and he was none the wiser. She knew there had to
be a logical explanation, but she was getting rather
sick of being the 'grown up' about their cell phones.
If he wasn't losing the damned things, he was letting
the batteries run down. He'd tried to convince her
that he did it just to save the life of the battery.
After letting him have it with both barrels, he'd
sheepishly swore it would never happen again.
Until the next time, of course.
At least the sky was clear and the road was
reasonably dry. It had been raining when the plane
touched down, but the storm had moved east and
now it was bright sunshine with no clouds to the
west. After consulting the map, Scully realized it
was all two-lane highway to her destination, another
reason to give Mulder hell. She hated driving
country roads, more so when she was by herself.
She had to watch carefully because it wasn't a
straight route, but required road changes. She didn't
even have the comfort of knowing exactly where
she was going to meet up with her partner. Since he
hadn't told her how to get to the mansion, she'd have
to get the rest of the directions upon reaching
Harrisburg, which she prayed was bigger than its
tiny circle appeared on the map.
Harrisburg Jiffy Stop
6:05 pm
After making a quick stop at the ladies room, Scully
went into the store and asked directions to the
Crenshaw Mansion. She was met with a dull stare.
"Oh, you mean the old Slave House?" asked the
'bright', young woman working her gum somewhat
harder than she was working the keys to the cash
register.
"Yes. The Slave House. I need directions," Scully
replied tiredly.
"Well, just go out west of town and look for the
sign for Equality. Turn right and you'll see it at the
top of the hill. Or you could just look for all the
police cars. Should be a slew of 'em out there by
now."
Something sour rose in her throat and her stomach
did a slow roll. "Police cars?" Scully queried.
"Yeah. Musta had some trouble out there, though I
sure don't know how. But the sheriff was in here
getting coffee when he got the call and a whole
bunch of squad cars and a couple of state troopers
went tearing up the road. I heard 'em say 'old slave
house', that's how I know'd where they went," she
added with a proud smile.
Scully swallowed thickly and tamped down on the
panic rising in her chest. "Do you remember how
long ago that was?"
"'Bout 3, maybe 3:15. I know 'cause the middle
school was lettin' out and all the kids were in here
gettin' sodies."
"Thank you," Scully said and turned to leave.
"Wonder if they found Tom's body," the girl mused
and Scully turned back.
"You know about the missing Forestry Employee?"
The girl nodded sadly. "I'm Beckie's cousin.
Beckie and Tom were engaged, but not a lot of
folks 'round here now about it, lest not yet. Beckie
asked me to be a bridesmaid." The girl sighed and
shook her head. "He was such a nice guy, too. Sure
is a shame."
Scully nodded in agreement and left the store for
her car. Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe
Mulder hadn't picked her up because they found the
body of the missing ranger. That would explain it.
He might have even turned his cell phone off in that
case. She'd almost convinced herself of that
possibility when she finished the final leg of her
journey and steered the car up the narrow gravel
path to the large red house on the top of the hill.
The gravel parking lot looked like a convention --
or a crime scene. Scully spotted two Illinois State
Police cruisers, three squad cars from Saline County
Sheriff's Department and two trucks from the US
Forestry Service. Off to one side sat a light blue
late model Taurus with a Lariat Rental Cars bumper
sticker. She sighed heavily as she pulled her own
rental next to her partner's.
She got out of the car, searching for Mulder among
the commotion of law enforcement officials. A
uniformed State Trooper approached her and she
dug in her pocket for her identification.
"Agent Scully, I'm with the Bureau," she said before
the officer had a chance to question her presence.
"My partner is here somewhere."
The Trooper looked closely at her badge and ID and
then frowned. "What's your partner's name?" he
asked.
"Fox Mulder. He came out here before me. I'm
sure if you check . . ."
"Bob! This is the partner you've been waiting for!"
the officer called out in a loud voice. An older man,
wearing a forestry service uniform jacket turned and
walked quickly over to them.
"Agent Scully," the man said offering his hand.
"I'm Bob Miller, Forestry. You're partner
mentioned you were on your way."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Where is Agent
Mulder?" Scully asked, noticing that the State
Trooper hadn't hung around long after Miller had
stepped over.
"Well, you see, that's the question," Miller said
nervously, his eyes darting anywhere but to meet
Scully's ice blue gaze. "He, um, he . . ."
"Mr. Miller, is my partner here?" Scully asked
again, realizing the man was struggling with the
question, albeit a very simple one.
"He was. He was right here. I was right next to
him. And then, the next minute -- he was gone."
Scully frowned and worried a back tooth with her
tongue. "He left?"
"No, ma'am. He didn't leave. The front door never
opened, that I could see. He just . . . he wasn't there
anymore!" the man stuttered out. "Just like Tom."
Miller took her arm and led her to the front porch of
the house. "I looked everywhere. When I called
and called and didn't get an answer, I thought
maybe he went outside. I searched around. His
car's still here, as you can see," he said, pointing to
the rental next to hers. "I found his overcoat and
suit jacket with his gun, his cell phone and his ID at
the top of the steps on the second floor. Look like
he'd been patted down, because I didn't find a
holster. That's when I got nervous. I called the
State Police and the Sheriff's department. They've
been out here going on three hours, looking. We
haven't found hide ner hair of him."
Scully looked down at her watch and realized it had
only been 4 hours since she talked to him. She
closed her eyes. She was afraid it was going to be a
long night.
Act II scene 2
Crenshaw Mansion
8:30 pm
It was now fully dark and Scully was doing her best
not to panic. "We searched the crawl space, Agent
Scully," the Sheriff's deputy informed her as he
sidestepped a group of men coming out from under
the house. "No sign anyone's been down there for a
long time," he said.
"Thank you, Deputy," Scully said with forced calm.
They had been through the house several times
already. She had personally gone through every
room, including the private quarters, at least twice.
She found Mulder's footprints in the dust that
covered the floor in one of the rooms, but it was
obvious that he had left the way he'd come in. It
truly was as Bob Miller had told her: her partner
seemed to just disappear into thin air, without a
trace. But she couldn't believe it, couldn't drop into
the despair that realization would bring.
Miller had left for home an hour ago. He'd asked
her if he should stay, but she could see no point.
There were at least seven men combing the house
and the small outbuilding in the back. The Sheriff
had already made plans to start searching the woods
and fields surrounding the mansion. Scully thanked
Miller and promised to call if they found anything.
With shoulders slumped and looking desolate and
very tired, the man reluctantly left for the night to
get some rest.
She'd already put in a call to Skinner. He had gone
through the database, searched for any escaped or
paroled convicts who might have been in the
vicinity. He also put in the call to the regional
office in Springfield. Scully had hoped to get help
not just from Springfield, but from St. Louis, which
had a larger office, but since Mulder had only been
missing a little over 12 hours, Skinner's hands were
tied.
Scully leaned against the wall at the bottom of the
steps on the first floor. She watched as a deputy
dusted the stair railing for prints. It was a long shot,
worse than a long shot. It was a shot in the dark,
but she knew the Sheriff was doing everything
possible to treat this seriously. She knew several of
the men were thinking what her nagging little voice
was telling her--Mulder wasn't here, he'd been taken
from this place and their only hope was in finding
tracks of some kind so they could redirect their
efforts away from this house.
"We've got the teams set up, Agent Scully. You
said you wanted to come out with us," said a young
man, another deputy that she couldn't place with a
name.
"Yes, thank you." She nodded wearily and
followed him out onto the porch. She was just
about to step off the top step when she heard it,
plain as day.
"Scully!"
Her breath caught in her throat, she spun around and
ran back into the house. She heard it, she heard him
call to her. Frantically she looked into the first
room, the one with a window overlooking the
porch. There was nothing there. The deputy who
had been dusting saw her actions and joined her.
"I heard him. My partner. I heard him. Didn't you
hear him?" she demanded.
"No ma'am," the young man said, a bewildered look
on his face. "Just now?"
"Yes, just now! Right here, it sounded like -- no, it
was more . . . it echoed more, like in the stairwell."
She was chewing on her lip, trying to place the
exact location Mulder would have been to call to
her.
She hurried out to the hall. "Here, he would have . .
." She stopped. The deputy was looking at her with
wide eyes, obviously doubting her words, but
anxious to help. "You didn't hear it?" she asked
again, forcing a calm she didn't want to feel.
He shook his head in the negative. "I'm sorry,
ma'am. I was right here and I didn't hear a thing."
Mulder started to call out to Scully again, but the
man holding his chains backhanded him, sending
him crashing to the floor. "No talking!" he was
warned. A yank on the iron collar around his neck
cut off his airway for a few seconds, forcing his feet
under him. His vision grayed out for a moment, but
when he was standing the pressure lessened and he
could see again. In the space of a heartbeat, Scully
was gone.
What was going on? he mused silently for what
seemed like the millionth time. One minute he
could see her plain as day, talking to some kid in a
uniform. The next minute, she vanished into thin
air and the whole mansion took on a different
quality.
"Rip in the time-space continuum?" he muttered,
but it only caused his guard to yank on the collar at
his throat again. The iron was cutting into his skin
at his throat and wrists. He was shackled, throat,
wrist and ankles. If he tried to run, he'd likely fall
flat on his face. The guard yanked again, this time
indicating that the prisoner was to move up the
stairs. This time he followed without making a
sound.
As they approach the attic, the smell hits Mulder.
He can't remember anything that smelled that bad.
Years ago he'd gone with his father to the animal
pound and thought that was bad. He'd been to
crime scenes where the body had laid undetected for
days in heat and humidity and knew that was bad.
But this was worse, much worse. Urine, sweat . . .
and fear. It assaulted his sinuses and made his eyes
water. They cleared the doorway and it was even
more concentrated. It took his breath away.
His handler yanked on the chain and Mulder
stumbled toward the left. As he moved into the
room he could see them. People, dozens of people.
Most of them men, here or there he might catch
sight of a teen-age boy. All of them African-
American. All of them chained as he was, tethered
to the iron rings he'd seen earlier in the walls of the
attic.
"This isn't possible," Mulder muttered. "I'm
dreaming this," he voiced aloud, trying desperately
to wake up from this nightmare.
"Shaddup!" yelled his handler and yanked so hard
on his chains that for a moment he thought his neck
would break from the pulling. "Over here." They
were standing directly in front of the second set of
cells to the outside wall. In the middle of that wall
set one tiny window, the one that had let in such
cold air earlier, was now the only source of light or
fresh air and it barely made a dent. Mulder looked
to the window and prayed a breeze would come by
and give him some air.
"Top bunk, now!" yelled the handler, right in his
ear, and Mulder scrambled as best as he could with
his shackled legs to get up into the top bunk. The
handler reached over him and attached the chain to
the ring in the wall. Confident his prisoner was
secured, the handler left without another word.
Mulder lay there for several minutes, too stunned to
move. Gradually, the pain in his neck and ankles
from the chains forced him to move on to his back.
It amused him that he'd been correct in his earlier
assessment of the cells -- they weren't big enough to
stretch out. His knees were bent to almost double to
accommodate him on his back, but at least the
weight of the iron collar was less on his throat and
he could breath easier. He noticed that he was even
becoming accustomed to the stench of the attic
room.
"Hey," came a voice from below him. "Hey, you
were with Bob, weren't you?" The voice was
hoarse and raspy, Mulder could just barely make
out the strained whisper.
Leaning over as far as he could, he could see the
man in the bunk below him. After a moment, he
could make out the face, could see the clothing.
The man was obviously Caucasian, he had sandy
blond hair cut short. Although his clothing was torn
and filthy, Mulder could make out a US Forestry
Service nametag sewn onto the shirt on the left
shoulder. "Are you Tom Coleman?" Mulder asked
in a hushed voice.
The man nodded vigorously and then winced at the
movement. "Yeah, I'm Coleman. You were with
Bob Miller, my supervisor. I saw you earlier." He
lay back after speaking, as if the effort was too
much for him.
"Are you all right?" Mulder asked worriedly.
"What happened to you?"
"Mouthed off and got whipped -- tried to call out to
you but you couldn't hear me," Tom said in a tired
whisper. "My back's all cut up. I think I got a fever
to boot."
"Look, Tom, my name is Fox Mulder. I'm a Special
Agent with the FBI. As soon as I can figure out
what is going on here, I'm going to get us out."
Tom barked out a bitter laugh. "We can't get out.
Don't you see? We're stuck here, in this hellhole,
for all time. Just like these poor bastards around
us."
"I can't pretend to know I understand what's going
on -- " Mulder started.
"We're gonna be sold acros't t' river," came a voice
from the bunk above. "You think you got it made
when you cross that big water, but man comes and
drags you back. Tha's the way it always been."
There was a pause. "Lessen' you escape."
"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked. He
leaned his head up to look at the top bunk but
couldn't see the other man's face because he was too
far back against the wall.
"Run fer it. What 'til the o'r'seer comes up here wit'
the keys. Tackle him and run fer it. If we all go
after him, we can take 'im down. You with us?"
Mulder frowned. "How? How do you take him
down?"
The hidden man chuckled. "You got 'nuf chain to
go 'round his throat, don' ya? Choke 'im! I'll whup
him on t' head. Young pup down dare can get his
keys and we'd be free men!"
Mulder was quiet for a long while, contemplating
the other man's words. "What do you think?" Tom
voice came from the gloom.
"I don't know," Mulder replied honestly.
"Don't have much choice, do we?" Tom asked, the
nervousness evident in his voice as much as the
fatigue.
"Guess not," Mulder agreed reluctantly. Louder, to
the other man, Mulder hissed. "We'll do it."
The other man chuckled. "Jes' foller my lead," he
said.
The light from the window dimmed with the
passage of the sun. Soon the attic took on the dark
gloom of a cave. There was a rattle at the door and
the man who had dragged Mulder to his prison was
back. He went around the attic, lighting kerosene
lamps attached to the walls. For a dim second
Mulder considered the fire hazard those lights
entailed, but shoved the thought aside as he realized
their plan was about to come to fruition. Plan?
What plan? He could hear Scully's voice
whispering in his ear but he shook his head to dispel
the nagging sense of foreboding.
As he approached, Mulder had a chance to size up
the 'overseer', as his bunkmate had called the man.
The guard wasn't quite as tall as Mulder, but what
he lacked in height he more than made up in bulk.
He was easily 250 pounds and all of it looked to be
muscle. Mulder noticed that his neck was as thick
as a tree trunk. Not an easy target, to be sure.
Mulder swallowed uneasily. He had to think this
through and come up with his part of the plan.
He hefted the chains as silently as he could. The
chains were heavy, each link was about two inches
long and too strong for any man to pull apart. He
had about two feet of play between the cuffs around
his wrist, with another length of chain sliding
through a ring that tethered the collar at his neck all
the way down to the cuffs at his ankles. It wasn't
going to be easy to get the chain around that thick
neck, but it was possible. All he needed was a
distraction . . . and a whole lot of luck.
As the man made his rounds, Mulder noticed he was
leaning over each prisoner, checking their shackles.
It was the break he needed. He waited silently as
the man checked the occupants of the cell next to
theirs. Just a few more minutes . . .
The overseer was there. He sauntered into the small
opening of the cell, stopping only long enough to
light the lamp near the window. As he approached,
Mulder's heartbeat sped up and his hands grew slick
with sweat. He kicked the bunk once to alert the
other two men, but he was certain they were as
ready as he was. The overseer checked the man
above him and when he was satisfied, he leaned in
to check Mulder's chains.
Fast as lightning, Mulder hands shot out and
wrapped the chain around the behemoth's neck. He
crossed his arms to tighten the garrote. He was so
intent on his task he didn't hear the man in the bunk
above yelling for all and sundry.
"Buck! Buck! He's tryin' to kill Mas'er Henry!
Buck, come quick!"
Something fierce latched onto Mulder's arms and
pulled them apart, almost ripping his shoulder out
of its socket. The overseer dropped to his knees, his
hands clutching at his throat. Before Mulder could
figure out what was happening a huge fist smashed
into his face, snapping his head back. Before he
succumbed to the darkness he heard a voice.
"Take 'im out back and whip the bastard till he ain't
movin' no more!"
end of part one
Crenshaw Mansion part two
4:00 am
It was the darkest part of the night, just before
dawn. The stars were all the illumination in the sky,
the moon set early. However, the mansion was
ablaze with light. The Sheriff's Department had
placed portable floodlights all over the parking area
and throughout the house. In addition, the
electricity had been restored and all the rooms in the
house were lit. Every speck of dust, every cobweb
in the attic was cast in stark relief. If there were an
injured agent, or even one just trying to hide in the
house, someone would have seen it.
Scully's mind was reeling. She stood on the front
porch and looked out to the woods just beyond the
parking lot. Trees ran along both sides of the small
creek, which she noted was past its banks from
recent spring rains. She couldn't imagine what
would have provoked Mulder to run into the woods
or the fields on all sides of this hilltop. It made no
sense for him to leave Miller and take off without
consulting anyone. Without waiting for her.
Not for the first time, her mind flashed images of
other famous 'ditches' -- when she'd been left behind
for supposedly noble reasons. Arecibo, Dead
Horse, the middle of the Sargasso Sea . . . She'd
lost track long ago of most of the smaller
infractions. But since they'd been together, since
they'd spent almost every waking and sleeping hour
in each other's presence he hadn't taken off on her.
Well, not as often, and usually with some clue as to
where he'd gone. This time he'd just disappeared.
She did remember, back in 2000, a case that
brought them out to the shores of Lake Michigan
and into the company of a murderous ghost. Her
mind flashed forward to their recent run-in with a
ghostly presence; one that almost cost her life as
well as Mulder's.
"No more damned ghost stories after this one,
Mulder, and I mean it," she mumbled to herself in
the cold night air. "At least for a while," she
amended, because as much as she would like to
pretend they had any say in their cases, she knew
that wasn't the truth of the matter. Even though
Skinner and the Bureau would allow them to turn
down a case now and then, Mulder's innate curiosity
always got the better of both of them.
She heard the car tires on gravel before she could
see the car. It came into the bright light of the
parking lot and slowed, looking for a place to stop.
A dark blue or black Ford Taurus, federal plates.
She groaned inwardly -- the 'cavalry' had arrived
from Springfield. Skinner had made it clear that she
needed help finding her partner, but he never
seemed to process that more often than not the local
field agents were less than helpful. She sighed
heavily and made her way down the steps to greet
the two men at the picket fence gate.
Their whole demeanor screamed FBI. The taller of
the two was at least 6 foot 3, while his shorter
counterpart still had Scully craning her neck. As
they approached stiff-necked and glowering, she
could imagine them with dark sunglasses, even
though it was the dark of night.
"Agents," Scully called, pulling out her own
identification. In tandem, the two men reached into
identical pockets and produced their own ID
wallets.
"Peters," announced the taller of the two, a dark
skinned and strikingly handsome man with an
expression that would have melted a more timid
person. Or any unattached female in the vicinity.
"Jeffers," said the other man who was a polar
opposite to his partner -- fair skinned, blonde, surfer
good looks. They could be bookends, Scully
thought to herself.
"Dana Scully," she introduced herself, making use
of her first name as well as her last. Out of courtesy
she extended her hand to Peters who merely raised
his eyebrow.
"Yeah. We know. So, what's ol' Spook gotten
himself into this time?" Peters asked and Jeffers
snickered at the joke.
Scully quickly schooled her expression. She took
an immediate dislike to both men, but they weren't
just flesh and blood to her at that point. They were
all the Bureau resources and she was alone in a
remote part of the country. As much as it irked her,
she needed them more than they needed her.
"Agent Mulder was called out to investigate the
disappearance of a United States Forestry
employee," she said evenly.
"Look, Scully, we got the fax from AD Skinner.
What we need are the details. What did Spooky
step in? Have you two pissed off anyone who
might have nabbed him? Did you two have a fight
and now he's shacked up with a local waitress?
What the hell are we doing standing on a
goddamned hill top in the middle of goddamned
nowhere southern Illinois at not even five o'clock in
the goddamned morning?"
"Agent Scully," called one of the uniformed state
troopers from around the side of the house.
"There's somethin' you oughta look at back here."
Flashlight beams danced as she and the trooper ran
back around the house, the two agents close on their
heels. When the trooper stopped it was at a post
sticking out of the ground about 5 feet tall with a
iron hoop about a half foot from the top connected
to the post with a thick screw. The trooper shone
his light near the bottom of the post.
Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and
stared at the circle of light as it struck the wooden
post. "I don't -- "
"There," the trooper said, bending down and
pointing a finger at a fine line of liquid running
down the grain of the wood. "It's wet."
Scully looked up at him wide-eyed and pulled a
latex glove out of her pocket. In a few seconds, she
was running one gloved finger down the wood and
brought it forward into the light of her flashlight to
examine it. "It's blood," she declared evenly.
"Take samples, I want this run against Agent
Mulder's blood type. It's on file with the Bureau in
DC."
"But this is fresh, it can't be over a couple of hours
old," Jeffers pointed out. "How did he get out here
without anybody seeing him?"
"There've been troopers and county people out and
about this yard all night. No one's been out here
that we didn't know about," the trooper interjected.
At that moment, Scully heard it. At first she
thought it was the wind howling through the
branches of the tree just thirty or so yards from
where they were standing. Then, when she heard it
again, she realized it was coming from the house.
The third time she heard it, her blood ran cold. She
knew that moan. She'd heard in times of extreme
pain and in the heights of passion. It could only
belong to her partner.
"Mulder!" she whispered and then shouted it loudly.
"Mulder!" Leaving the three men in her dust, she
ran toward the house and the door that came off the
small addition to the private residence.
"Agent Scully, that door's locked," the trooper
called out.
Realizing her mistake, Scully turned on her heel and
ran for the front of the house. She made it long
before the other men, even given the difference in
length of strides. She bounded up the steps and into
the house without a glance back to see if anyone
followed.
Shoving deputies out of her way, she continued up
the steps to the second floor. In the hallway, she
stopped, tried to calm her breathing and the
pounding of her heart. She strained her ears to hear
the sound, the moan, again. Nothing.
"Mulder?" she called hesitantly, hopefully.
"Mulder, where are you? Mulder, if you can hear
me, answer me. Anything, a grunt. Just tell me
which way to go," she demanded. She waited
again. Silence echoed back to her.
The tears caught her by surprise. Angrily, she
swiped at her eyes and turned her back on the two
agents and the trooper who had finally made it to
the second floor. When she got control of her
emotions, she turned to face them.
"What did you hear?" asked Jeffers, who gently
took her elbow and steered her toward the steps
leading to the attic. At first she refused to sit, but it
seemed that all the fight was leaving her and in the
wake of its departure she felt completely drained of
life.
"I heard him," she said in a voice just above a
whisper. "I heard him. He was here. I don't know
where he is now, but he was here." She sat there a
moment, chewing on her bottom lip. Suddenly, she
sprang to her feet. "A tunnel. There has to be a
tunnel somewhere, under the house. That's where
he is, it's where he has to be!"
Mulder was in so much agony, he kept his eyes
clamped tight as the overseer dragged him up the
stairs of the house by the shackles on his wrists.
The open cuts on his back flared with white hot fire
with each bump and bounce as he hit the steps one
by one. At the top of the stairs, his hip hit the edge
of a baluster and his eyes flew open in pain and
surprise.
There, in the dim light that comes just with the
dawn, he saw her. Scully. She was saying
something but he couldn't hear her voice. Her
image wavered in the air, like a mirage. He wanted
to call out to her, to warn her, to call out to her to
get help, but he was being dragged up the final set
of stairs to the prison on the third floor. When he
blinked the tears from his eyes, she was gone.
An eternity later, he was thrown in the little closet
that was their cell. Tom was lying on his side on
the bottom bunk, staring into space. Mulder
crawled into the second bunk and stifled a cry as his
back hit the hard wood.
"Tom," Mulder whispered after he found a position
that didn't bring tears to his eyes. "Tom. I think I
saw my partner. I think I saw Scully."
The other man made no response for several
minutes. Finally, he drew in a deep breath.
"Hallucination. Or trickery. We're in Hell, haven't
you figured that out yet?"
"This ain't Hell," came a voice from the next cell.
"Ain't done nuthin' to deserve gonna ta Hell."
"No, it wasn't a hallucination," Mulder gritted out,
ignoring their companion. "I saw her. I know she's
here. She's looking for us."
"Thought I heard Beckie once. It's just the mind,
playin' tricks on you," Tom bit back angrily.
"She was all shimmering. It was like she was there,
but not really there. Maybe it was a mirage,"
Mulder said with a heavy sigh. "But I felt her. I
know Scully was there. She was calling my name
but I couldn't hear her voice."
"It's the pain. Does things to the head," the man in
the next cell said.
"What if -- what if we're here and she's here but
we're in two different planes of existence?" Mulder
mused aloud.
"Different -- what? What kinda nonsense is that?"
Tom demanded, stopping to cough. "We're here but
we're not? You hit your head on the way up them
steps, Agent Mulder?"
"No, listen, when I came into this house Miller and
I checked the attic. There was nothing up here -- no
chains, definitely no men. Now the place is full of
people. How is that?"
"We aren't in the same place," Tom answered.
"No! We're not in the same 'time'!" Mulder replied
quickly. "We just have to figure out how to get
back to our time."
Tom coughed again, this time the sound was wet
and wheezing. "Well, when you figure that out, you
let me know," he said derisively.
Act III scene 1
She had the bearing of a woman of wealth and
power. Mulder caught sight of her as he curled in a
corner of his bunk, trying to keep his aching back
from touching the unforgiving wood surface. She
stepped around the attic room as if she didn't notice
the squalor or the stench. When the man they'd
called 'Buck' moved toward her, the smile on her
face lit the dark corners of the room. She put her
arms around his neck and kissed him fervently.
Mulder closed his eyes, thoughts of Scully in his
arms warring with the image of a woman in silk and
hoop skirts embracing a man barely clothed in
tattered garments.
His eyes were still closed when he heard the two
approach. He feigned sleep. It wasn't hard to do,
his back was screaming but his body was so tired he
probably would have fallen asleep standing up. On
reflection, that was most likely the only position he
would be able to sleep. Every time his back hit the
wood, he was jolted from what little peace his
slumber could give him.
They were whispering. Part of him wanted to listen
closely to what they were saying. Part of him
wanted the entire experience, hell, the whole trip
out to Illinois to be a very bad nightmare so he
could wake up in Scully's arms and have her tell
him he was going in late in the morning because she
wanted him to get a little more sleep.
He decided to ignore the intruders until they moved
closer into the cell. He cracked an eye open just a
slit and watched Buck nudge Tom with his foot.
The younger man groaned in pain. It relieved
Mulder that Tom was responding at all, he'd begun
to wonder if the engineer was unconscious.
"They're white," the woman commented, as if
noting that there might be rain later in the day.
Buck grunted in agreement. She looked up at the
tall man with a coy smile. "Come, we don't have
much time," she purred and took Buck by the arm,
leading him to the far end of the attic.
When they were far enough out of earshot, Mulder
leaned over to check on Tom. He found the young
man's eyes open, staring into space. He had to get
him talking.
"Who was that?" Mulder asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Mrs. Crenshaw," Tom replied with a tired smirk.
"She and Buck -- well, let's just say Buck has lots of
duties around here, some of them nicer than others."
"Mrs. Crenshaw?" Mulder repeated. "As in -- "
"Crenshaw's wife. Her family had money and lost it
in some land deal. She thought she was gonna
marry into society because Crenshaw was up and
coming. He built this place for her. Guess this
wasn't the exciting life she'd hoped for," Tom said
with a faint twinkle in his eyes before turning
serious. "Be careful around her. I've seen her get
more than one man whipped for just lookin' at her.
And if Buck gets to do the job -- those men never
came back."
"So Buck -- "
"Buck is an overseer, just like Harold. Crenshaw
doesn't have him on the same payroll," Tom tried to
explain.
"How did you find out all of this?" Mulder asked.
"Been listenin' to some of the talk up here. Plus, I
grew up in these parts. Crenshaws have been a
topic of gossip since they moved here. The fact
they were dead didn't make them any less interestin'
to the most of us."
Mulder dozed for a while, he had no idea how much
time had passed. He heard footsteps and looked out
to see Mrs. Crenshaw coming back to ward them,
straightening her skirt and adjusting it in the
reflection of the windowpane. She walked over to
their cell and peered in at Tom on the bottom bunk.
She put her hand out, touching the young man and
flinched when she made contact. "He's feverish,"
she said over her shoulder to Buck, who was
standing right behind her. "How long have they
been here?"
"That one, two nights. This one just got here."
She turned to speak directly to Buck, disregarding
Mulder, who was staring right at her. "They can't
stay here," she said firmly.
"We could dump the bodies in the woods," Buck
offered.
She shook her head. "No, it would just lead to more
questions. Two white men, whipped, dead. There
would be an investigation of some sort. There's
enough suspicion in town as it is. Besides, our
guest will be arriving soon. Finding them here
would be an embarrassment to Mr. Crenshaw. We
have to do something quickly."
"What do you want me to do?" Buck asked. She
started to answer, cast a glance down at Mulder and
then moved Buck away. Mulder could hear them
murmuring, but couldn't make out any words.
Act III scene 2
Mulder had drifted off to sleep, so he was startled
when a hand landed on his shoulder. In the dim
light of the cell he could make out the huge dark
form looming over him. A second large hand came
down over his mouth and he struggled for a moment
before the hand covered his nose and he was forced
to be still.
"Quiet," ordered a voice in the darkness. "Be
quiet."
Mulder nodded silently and the pressure on his
mouth and nose lessened. He watched in silence as
the large form moved into a slant of light from a far
lantern and he could see its face. Buck.
"What -- "
"Silence, damn it," Buck hissed. He reached into
his pocket and Mulder watched in amazement as the
larger man produced a set of skeleton keys and
deftly unlocked the shackles around Mulder's throat,
wrists and ankles. In a few seconds, he'd
accomplished the same feat for Tom. Tom, unlike
Mulder, was now totally unresponsive.
"You have to carry him," Buck directed, jerking his
head down to the bottom bunk and Tom's still mass.
"Is he dead?" Mulder breathed. It was taking him
some time to crawl down from his bunk, his back
was aching and his legs where wobbly.
"No. He's alive. You have to get out of here."
Mulder pulled Tom into a sitting position and
hoisted the other man's arm across his shoulders.
Pain licked up his back as the action pulled torn
flesh, but that didn't deter him. A tiny voice in his
mind that sounded almost like Scully cautioned him
and he stopped.
"Wait. Why are you doing this? Is this a trap? Are
you going to kill us for trying to escape?"
Buck looked at him sourly. "Mas'er Harold's down
in the main house, play acting as a servant. The
Missus wants you gone. If you were found up here,
there'd be Hell to pay. Nobody minds what happens
to one of us, but if they found out about you -- "
"Servant? Why, what's happening?"
"Someone's coming. Even Crenshaw has
overseers," Buck snorted at his own joke.
Tom started to rouse and moan. Buck clamped a
hand over his mouth. "Keep him quiet, or I will
have to kill him," he warned Mulder. The agent
nodded mutely and struggled with Tom's weight a
moment before following Buck to the window.
"How are we supposed to get down?" Mulder asked
when Buck came to an abrupt stop. The agent
looked out the window and down, then faced Buck,
who was smiling.
"You can't expect us to jump! The fall would kill
us!" Mulder sneered.
"You dumb bastard," Buck said with the shake of
his head. "That drainpipe has carried twice your
skinny asses. Just grab hold and shimmy down."
To demonstrate his point, Buck leaned out the
window, took hold of the guttering and proceeded
to climb down as if it were a tall tree.
Mulder gapped at the man's head as it got farther
and farther away down the pipe. When Buck hit the
ground and waved up to him, he had no choice.
"Scully, you're missing another display of my
youthful agility," he muttered as he hoisted Tom
onto his shoulder. He would have to take the
younger man in a fireman's carry and even then it
would be a dangerous feat. "Tom, I'm really glad
you're a health nut," Mulder told the unconscious
engineer. "Otherwise, this journey would be all
over before we even got started."
It was a tight squeeze getting out of the window, but
they managed. Mulder was surprised to find the sill
provided a decent foothold as he reached for the
drainpipe. He was pleasantly amazed to note that
the gutter pipe was made of cast iron and very
sturdy. That didn't make climbing with 160 pounds
of dead weight any easier, but at least he didn't have
the worry that the pipe would collapse as they
crawled down.
When he got to the second floor, he realized their
proximity to the open window. He could see, in the
corner of his eyes serving girls coming and going
out of one of the rooms. He saw Crenshaw's wife,
dressed in a beautiful green gown, enter the hallway
and start for the stairs. For a second, she turned and
glanced out the window. She met Mulder's eyes
and smiled. She turned and descended down the
stairs without saying a word.
Buck was on the ground shooting Mulder glares
when the agent faltered and almost dropped Tom.
The engineer's body seemed to grow heavier with
each step, but Mulder doubled his efforts.
If felt like an eternity to Mulder before they finally
reached the ground. Mulder's back was bleeding
again; he could feel the sticky wetness and felt the
pull as it clung to his shirt. Adrenaline was keeping
the pain at bay. Carefully he lowered Tom to his
feet and leaned him against the pipe. Buck grabbed
Mulder's arm and shoved him against the clapboard
of the house. "Stay here," he hissed and melted into
the darkness around the corner of the structure.
"Tom? Tom, can you hear me?" Mulder asked,
trying to rouse his companion.
The young man's eyes flittered open. When he
realized he was standing, or rather leaning, and felt
the cool air on his face, he searched around for
Mulder.
"Where are we?" he asked in a hoarse rasp.
"We're outside the house. We're going to get out of
here. My car was parked out front. If we can just
get out that way -- "
Buck's sudden appearance from around the corner
stopped further conversation. "You go straight to
the woods, down there," the big man growled,
pointing to the woods to the south of the house.
"Don't go near the front of the house. People's
comin' -- there are carriages up there. If you don't
wanna be caught again, go that way."
"Why are you helping us?" Mulder asked again, still
harboring suspicions that they were being lured into
a trap.
"Missus and me, we don't want no trouble. Not for
old Crenshaw and not for us. Understand?" He
towered over Mulder, a menacing look to his eyes.
"Understood," Mulder said with a nod. "What
about water?"
"Plenty in that stream you have to cross," Buck said
with the hint of a chuckle. "You'll have all the
water you could ask for in just a few minutes. Now,
hightail afore I change my mind and just kill ya for
the fun of it!"
Over in the east, the deep purple was just beginning
to give way to a lighter blue. Mulder knew they
didn't have much time to make the woods before
someone would be up and would notice their
escape. Hoisting Tom on his shoulder again, he
started around the house and down the gentle slope
to the stand of trees.
Horses hoofs on the dirt path to the house caused
him to press against the clapboard. The sound of
carriage wheels, groaning under their burden
seemed horribly close to Mulder's ear. Cautiously,
he lowered Tom to the ground so he could creep
along the building and see if they might be detected.
Torches were lit at the front of the mansion, lighting
the circular drive up to the house. Two horsemen
and a carriage had just pulled up directly in front of
the stone sidewalk that led to the front porch.
Mulder saw a big bulk of a man, easily near six feet
and more than 200 pounds, standing at the gate at
the end of the sidewalk. As the driver to the
carriage jumped down and opened the small leather
door, the man at the gate almost danced with
excitement.
It took a moment for the occupant of the carriage to
exit and Mulder's position was such that the
carriage door blocked most of his view. Finally, the
occupant stepped forward, adjusting a tall
'stovepipe' hat before extending his hand toward the
man at the gate. In the profile cast by the torches,
Mulder got a picture of the occupant of the carriage
worthy of the front page for any newspaper in the
country.
It was the 16th President of the United States.
Abraham Lincoln had come to visit the Crenshaw
Mansion.
"Mr. Lincoln, I trust the ride down from Springfield
wasn't too difficult," spoke the jovial man at the
gate.
"It will be a far sight easier when we get the
railroads completed, Mr. Crenshaw. A far sight
easier," said Lincoln. Now that they stood together,
Mulder could see that Lincoln was much taller than
Crenshaw, taller than any other man standing near
him.
"Well, let's get inside and I'll take you to your room.
You can rest and then we'll have some breakfast.
I've taken the liberty of contacting some of the other
businessmen in the area in regards to your
campaign. They're very excited about . . ." The rest
of Crenshaw's words were lost as the men, Lincoln,
Crenshaw, the riders and the driver all entered the
house.
Mulder leaned against the clapboard, trying to
process what he'd just seen. He remembered Bob
Miller telling him that Lincoln was supposed to
have visited Crenshaw, but to have the man who
was credited with freeing the slaves right under the
same roof as a slave trader was almost too extreme
a possibility!
He waited until he was sure that all the men were
inside the house before he went to Tom. The
younger man was coming around, obviously in
pain. Mulder put his hand over Tom's mouth to
keep him from moaning too loud and alerting the
occupants of the mansion. Finally the agent slung
the engineer's arm over his shoulder and the two
started the trek to the trees and hopefully, freedom.
They hadn't gone far when Mulder's ears picked up
on something coming from the direction of the
house. He stopped for a moment, almost causing
Tom to slip from his grasp. The jarring was enough
to snap the younger man into full consciousness.
"What is it?" Tom asked.
"I thought . . . " Mulder was silent until he heard it
again, confirming his worst fears. He looked over
at the engineer, realizing that his companion had
heard it too.
"Dogs," they said in unison.
Panic swept across both men's faces. Mulder
looked around frantically, trying to find a good
hiding place or even an easier way to get through
the trees. Tom tugged on his hand and pointed
toward the water.
"The creek. We'll walk the creek bed. Hopefully
they'll lose the scent."
Mulder nodded immediately and headed off toward
the creek.
Act III scene 2
Crenshaw Mansion
5:04 am
Scully stood on the top step of the porch and looked
out into the darkness. Off to the east, she could see
the deep purple letting go to the lighter blue of the
morning sky. One star shone brightly on the
horizon and she offered up a prayer for her partner.
She was about to go back into the house when she
heard another set of tires on the gravel drive.
Two minivans with Sheriff's Department markings
pulled into the parking area. Quickly, the drivers of
each van jumped out and released the occupants of
the back cargo areas. Four tan bloodhounds, tails
wagging and tongues lapping, tumbled over each
other in their excitement to get on with the chase.
Scully felt a hand on her elbow and looked up into
the kind eyes of the local Sheriff. "We tried this
when Tom first disappeared, but the trail had gone
cold. It's the best we can do until the State Police
can get a helicopter up at full light to search the
fields."
She nodded, but could tell even the Sheriff thought
it was a futile attempt. "Do you need anything?"
she asked.
"If you have some item of clothing, maybe
something in his rental car?"
"If one of your men doesn't mind popping the lock
on the trunk, I'm sure I can find something," she
said, walking to the abandoned car with the Lariat
sticker at the far end of the parking lot.
In minutes she had rummaged through Mulder's
bag, the bag she'd helped him pack just two nights
before, and found his Hoya's sweatshirt with the cut
off sleeves. She'd often threatened to turn it into a
dust cloth because it never seemed to lose the smell
of sweat, even after repeated launderings. He'd
always managed to dig it out of the wash and hide it
before she had a chance to find her scissors. She
caressed the natted fleece for the briefest of
moments and then handed the shirt to the Sheriff.
"This should work," he said and smiled in
encouragement. "We still have the ball cap Beckie
gave us that Tom wore, so that's all we need." He
turned to go over to the dogs and their handlers, but
turned back. "Did I hear you talking to your boss in
DC?"
Scully was chewing on her lip, deep in thought, but
his question got her attention. "Yes. He got a call
through to the Director. The St. Louis office will be
sending a team out this morning. They should be
here around 10."
The Sheriff smiled. "We haven't had this big of a
posse since Jesse James used Cave-in-Rock for a
hideout one winter," he smiled. "We'll find 'em,
Agent Scully. Don't you fret."
All she could do was nod and plaster on a hopeful
expression. It made her face feel like it was cast in
cement.
It was painful to stand and wait, but Skinner had
instructed her to be available to the St. Louis agents
when they arrived. She watched the dogs and their
four handlers canvass the grounds of the mansion
and then saw them perk up the ears and head in the
direction of the creek several yards from the house.
She pulled in a deep breath and watched them,
sending up another silent prayer.
9:54 am
She'd sat on the top step of the porch steps and
dozed for a few moments. The tires on the gravel
startled her awake. The cavalry, such as it was, had
arrived. Four men wearing FBI jackets emerged
from the Crown Vic and headed toward her. One
broke ranks and headed straight for her. She did a
quick double take and stood up as recognition hit.
"Marty? Marty Neil?" she said, first in a whisper
and then louder. "Marty?"
The man was standing directly in front of her, a big
grin on his face. Glancing over his shoulder before
turning back to her, he gave her a wink and offered
his hand before pulling her into a quick hug.
"Dana. Been a long time."
"Marty, I thought you were in New York, foreign
counter terrorism. Of course that was years ago."
"Nine-eleven shake up. It was decided that the
Midwest needed some expertise in that area, too.
Been in St. Louis almost four years. I'm regional
SAC," he said, a proud smile on his face. "And
you. You're still with . . . Mulder?" She could tell
he was about to call her partner by his nickname,
but thought better of it. "You two have been
partners -- how long now? Some kind of Bureau
record, isn't it?"
Scully dipped her head, allowing her hair to hide
her face for a second. "Twelve years now," she
said, lifting her chin and meeting his challenge.
"That's, uh, that's great. I heard about some of the
work you've done."
"Good reports, I hope," she shot back.
"Oh, yeah, definitely. Well, mostly. Say, I got the
file from DC, but maybe you could fill us in a little
better? I brought Starbucks in a thermos. You still
drink latte, right?"
Somewhere in southern Illinois
10:14 am
For a while, the cold water of the creek rejuvenated
both men. As the day drew on and the air grew hot
and humid, their strength began to sap. Mulder was
now almost carrying Tom and he wasn't in much
better shape himself.
"We have to rest a minute," he told the younger
man. "Do you hear them?"
"Nah, I think we lost 'em. Look, if we follow this
creek for just a little more, the Cache River that
runs past here. We can follow that further south."
The two stumbled up the creek bed to dry land,
falling to their knees. Mulder's legs were wobbly
from running and dodging the rocks at the bottom
of the stream. They were in a few trees, but just
beyond a couple of cottonwoods, the day was
heating up and the field of foot high corn near them
already seemed to shimmer in the heat, waving in
the gentle breeze.
Mulder pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips.
Dipping one in the creek, he wiped his own face
and then wet another and handed it to Tom to do the
same.
"Where are we going, Tom?" Mulder asked,
concerned that they were just running but had no
plan. They still had to figure out how to get back to
their own time. He had to find a way back to
Scully.
"There's some rock formations just a few miles
from here. Lots of caves, rocky land. We can hide
there while we figure out how to get into town,"
answered the engineer.
"Tom, town may not be like it was a few days ago.
Town might be like the house, 170 years ago,"
Mulder cautioned softly.
"Look, all's I know is Beckie can find me if we get
someplace with a phone."
"That's just what I'm saying, Tom. Back at the
house, they didn't have phones back then."
That seemed to only anger the young man. "You
got a better idea?"
Mulder stared out into the cornfield. It didn't look
any different than cornfields he'd seen on any of his
several visits to this part of the country. But had
farming really changed that much in 170 years?
Without an obvious piece of evidence, say a John
Deere tractor plowing a field or an SUV parked in a
farmhouse driveway, how would you know what
century you were in down here in the deep rural
Midwest? It all looked ageless.
"How far did you say these caves were?"
Tom smiled. "Rest up. Just a couple of miles, but
the last couple will take a bit of climbin'."
Crenshaw Mansion
1:15 pm
The Sheriff's Department had sent out lunches, bags
of burgers and fries from McDonald's, but Scully
hadn't touched hers. She'd managed to down half a
cup of latte, but eventually left the cup somewhere
and couldn't remember where she'd put it.
The private residence had been opened up and now
served as the command post. The kitchen island
held topographical maps of the area, pictures of
both Tom and Mulder were taped to the doors of the
cabinets. Scully stood in the living room area, away
from the bustle of agents and local law
enforcement, feeling adrift and totally useless. The
Sheriff's walkie-talkie squawked to life but she only
marginally listened. So far, all reports from the
field had been negative.
"That's great! Give me your coordinates again;
we'll be out there fast as we can. No, just leave one
man behind, you others go on ahead. This might be
the lead we're lookin' for."
The Sheriff's words grabbed her attention and she
was next to the man in a flash. "They found
something," she said breathless.
"A neck tie. The tag said it was some shop in
Georgetown."
"Mulder," Scully whispered. "I'm going with you."
"I figured you would. We'll take my Jeep. It's got
four-wheel drive."
They took mostly back roads and Scully was
amazed at the switchback curves and deep hills and
valleys. Illinois had never seemed to have much
landscaping; certainly not up near Tuscola where
they'd encountered a phantom panther just a few
months back. Here the landscape almost resembled
the foothills of the Appalachians that she knew in
Maryland and Virginia.
When they went off road, she was very happy to
have the four-wheel drive and even happier to leave
the driving to the Sheriff. He plowed along farm
paths and finally came to a creek where she spotted
one of his men.
"I gave Brutus to John, figured they'd need him on
the trail," the deputy told the Sheriff to explain his
missing bloodhound. "Here's the tie." He held the
scrap of silk out to the Sheriff, but Scully's hand
snatched it from him.
"It's Mulder's. He was wearing it the last time I saw
him."
The Sheriff looked around. "We're a good nine
miles from the house. If that blood can account for
anything -- " He gave Scully a furtive glance and
didn't finish the thought.
"How did he get this far, injured?" Scully said
quietly. "And is he alone?"
"We found some footprints over there. Looks like
he was following the creek, like you thought,
Sheriff." The deputy directed them to a fallen log
just on the edge of the creek. "There're two sets of
prints. Those are work boots one of 'em's wearing.
The other set appears to be leather, no tread to
speak of."
"The leather shoes are Mulder's. He had on his
wingtips. But I don't know about the work boots,"
Scully mused.
"Could that be who took him?" the Sheriff asked.
"But we didn't find any of those prints back at the
house."
"Wouldn't Tom Coleman wear boots like those?"
Scully asked. "And look at the imprints. They're
both struggling, but the work boots are fainter
impressions and dragging the toes. Either the
person is very light -- "
"Or your partner is helping him along."
The Sheriff and Scully exchanged worried looks.
"We best get moving. We might be able to catch up
to the dogs now," the Sheriff said. The deputy
hopped in the back of the Jeep and they were off.
Act III scene 3
Gallatin County, Illinois
4:30 pm
Mulder had been so concentrated on the path before
him that he hadn't had time to look around at the
spectacular scenery surrounding them. Tom was as
good as his word, knowing where trails were that
led them over hill, dale and skirted large rock
formations. Their path left Mulder almost dizzy but
finally, just as Tom's energy seemed at its lowest
point, they topped a crest and saw the cave.
When Mulder thought of 'cave' he assumed it was a
hole in the side of a hill or mountain, like he'd
found in Tennessee, home of the gigantic man-
eating mushroom. But these caves were really
indentations under huge granite boulders, little more
than low roofed shelters. It took some time to
scramble down the hill to the nearest cave, but after
several missteps and an almost twisted ankle, they
arrived at their destination.
"This is it, this is as far as I go," Tom gasped as he
slid out from under Mulder's arm and to the rock
floor.
"I'll see about getting us some water," Mulder said
tiredly. There was a trickle of water coming from a
crack in the ceiling of their cave and he made for it.
Once there he'd cupped handfuls of the precious
commodity into his mouth to quench his own thirst,
he realized he really didn't have much to carry any
water back. He quickly soaked a corner of his
tattered shirt to take back to Tom.
Tom wasn't conscious when Mulder checked on
him. The agent shook his head in frustration and
then looked around. It was getting close to evening
and a cool wind had blown in. The day had been
hot, but the night could be a problem and they had
nothing to keep them warm. He thought briefly
about starting a fire, but was concerned that the
wood smoke might alert their pursuers to their
whereabouts. They weren't much better off here
than they had been walking, except they had some
time to rest.
He was so tired. He hadn't slept at all the night
before and between the journey and carrying Tom,
his back felt on fire. He sat down next to where the
young engineer was sprawled on a rock. When his
back hit the cool, rough surface of the cave wall
Mulder winced, but gradually accepted the small
amount of comfort it afforded. Maybe if he just
closed his eyes for a moment he could collect his
thoughts.
The sun was further behind the hills when he
awoke. Something he'd heard had jarred his senses
and brought him out of a deep slumber. He looked
over at Tom, putting a hand to the young man's
forehead. Fever radiated off the engineer's pale
skin. Mulder bit his lip and thought about getting
more water just to try and cool Tom down a bit.
But then the sound that woke him came again.
Barking -- off in the distance but coming closer.
Mulder had to do something! They were going to
be found. Searching the ledge cave for any fissure
big enough to hold both of them, he found only a
few boulders at the far end of the indent. Maybe he
could hide Tom and lead the dogs away from the
sick and injured man. It was all he could think of
on such short notice.
It took almost all his strength to pull Tom's
senseless body over behind the rocks. He hoped it
was enough cover. He walked out of the cave and
listened again. It was hard to judge exactly which
direction the dogs were coming, the hills and rock
formations made for natural echo chambers. The
deep shadows from the setting sun made it even
more difficult to decide on a direction to run. He
saw a rise with a huge oval shaped boulder just a
few hundred yards away from the cave and sprinted
off toward it.
The dogs were close now. He could almost hear
their panting in between the howls and the barking.
He imagined he could hear their paws clawing at
the rocks for purchase. He made it to the boulder
and was looking back, trying to see if he could spot
the dogs. His foot caught on a tree root and he went
head over heels, but instead of hitting forest floor,
he kept falling, tumbling over and over until all was
darkness.
Ferne Clyffe State Park
Just outside Goreville, Illinois
6:00 pm
As they cleared the ridge, Scully was scrambling to
keep up with the dogs and their handlers. All four
animals were brown and black balls of pure energy,
excited by the strength of the scent and the end of
their hunt. Anxiety was high among the humans.
Scully had been calling her partner's name as she
climbed down the rocks, but the wind kept stealing
it away.
The dogs stopped under a ledge and sniffed. One
grabbed something in its mouth and the handler
took it gently. "Looks like a piece torn off a shirt,"
he said, handing the cloth over to Scully.
"There's blood on it," Scully noted, biting her lip.
As she spoke the words another one of the dogs
rushed over to a boulder at the far end of the
overhang and started pawing at the ground. Its
handler looked behind the rock with a flashlight and
then frantically flagged the rest of the group. "I
found one of 'em!" he shouted.
A portable stretcher materialized from some one's
backpack and Scully hurried over to see who had
been found. She had to choke back an anguished
cry when she discovered not her partner, but the
man they had originally been sent to recover, Tom
Coleman. Swallowing her fear for Mulder, she
quickly examined the engineer.
"Get him on the stretcher and get a thermal blanket
over him. Notify the chopper of our whereabouts
and that they need to get this man to the nearest
trauma center. He's in shock, feverish, looks like
he's been hit pretty hard in the head. If I'm not
mistaken, he's been horse whipped."
"Horse whipped?" questioned one of the rescuers,
but hurried to help perform the task of getting the
injured man on the stretcher. As they moved him,
Tom began to rouse.
"Dogs. . . gotta keep movin' . . . can't let 'em . . ."
The rest of his words were lost in his delirium.
"Mr. Coleman, where is my partner?" Scully asked
gently, hoping the young man would have some
connection to reality and could point them in the
right direction.
"Overseers," Tom muttered and fell back into
unconsciousness.
The Sheriff touched Scully's shoulder. "We're
losing the light, Agent," he said firmly.
"He has to be here!" she spit out. "He would never
have left an injured man behind. Not unless he
couldn't help it."
One of the dogs had broken loose from its handler
and had run to a boulder some distance away. The
bloodhound was now standing on top of the
boulder, barking at whatever lay on the other side.
Scully took one look at the Sheriff and they both
hurried after the dog.
She thought about climbing up the rock, but the
Sheriff pointed to a way to get around it. As she
cleared the edge of the rock and peered down into
the ravine hidden beyond it, her heart jumped to her
throat.
There on the forest floor, unmoving, was her
partner.
Epilogue
Massac Memorial Hospital
Metropolis, Illinois
The next day
10:13 am
Mulder was dozing in his hospital bed when Scully
came in carrying another bouquet of flowers.
"Did I die and you just haven't had the heart to tell
me?" he asked as she placed them next to the other
four or five bouquets already decorating the
windowsill.
"No, it's just Southern Illinois hospitality," Scully
said with a grin. "These are from Tom's parents."
"How is he doing?" Mulder asked, wincing as he
reached for the cup of water on his tray table. His
back still hurt but the pain meds were helping
tremendously.
"Better. His fever is down. Some of the cuts and
welts on his back had become infected and he had a
touch of pneumonia, but he'll be back on his feet in
a few weeks. He and Beckie finally announced
their engagement, so everyone was pretty happy.
The flowers by the wall are from Beckie, by the
way."
"Did you get a chance . . ."
She held up her hand to stop his question. "Mulder,
after ensuring that you weren't in a coma and
weren't going to die on me, I went back to the
mansion. Neill and his men had all but dismantled
the attic. There were no signs of any of the men
you told me about, not any chains, shackles, iron
collars -- "
"Nothing? What about the bunk where Tom was
kept? There should have been blood there."
"I'm don't know what to tell you, Mulder. There
wasn't any blood anywhere."
"But you did find my blood on the whipping post,"
he reminded her.
"Yes, the blood we found out there was a match to
you. Are you sure someone didn't just hit you in the
head and you hallucinated -- " She stopped her
question when she saw the set of his jaw.
"Scully, I didn't imagine being whipped. I have the
cuts on my back to prove that. And what about
this?" he asked, holding his hospital issued gown
out to expose a dark bruise at his throat where he
wore the iron collar. "I suppose I hallucinated that,
too, huh?"
"But Mulder, I was there all night. I never left that
house, except to go out on the porch. And I saw
nothing."
"But you heard me. You admitted to me that you
heard me call your name. And you heard me
moaning in pain. You aren't suggesting that you
were hallucinating, are you, Scully? Because you
weren't hit on the head."
"Mulder, I'm just saying it's hard for me to believe
that you were lost in another time, that the 1840s
and 2005 crossed for a while." He folded his arms
defiantly, grimacing when he pulled the healing cuts
on his back. Scully shook her head. He wasn't
going to be dissuaded this time, but then she
reminded herself that was nothing new. "Look,
however you accomplished it, you did find Tom
Coleman and return him to his loved ones."
"And you found me and did the same," he said,
reaching for her hand. She allowed him to pull her
next to him on the narrow hospital bed, happy to be
in his arms. "So, when can we go home?"
"Doctor wants to keep you one more night for
observation. I have us on a 2:30 flight out of
Paducah tomorrow afternoon." He scooted over a
bit so she had more room. "So you were invisible
to us all that time, huh, Mulder?" she asked as she
put her head down on his chest. The rhythm of his
heartbeat was a salve to her own emotional cuts and
bruises from the last 24 hours.
"A hundred and sixty years ago men were gathered
up and sold back into slavery in a free state, Scully.
No one noticed then, either. Maybe sometimes evil
is just invisible."
She nodded, digesting that thought. After a moment
she pulled up enough to look in his eyes. "You
really saw Abraham Lincoln," she challenged.
"Stove pipe, beard and all," he replied.
"The Great Emancipator spent the night in a
mansion where slaves were being housed and sold.
What does that say, Mulder?"
"I'm pretty certain he didn't know it was happening,
Scully. As for what it says, I would think it says
evil is everywhere. And it's up to the righteous to
be constantly on guard," he told her. He kissed her
softly on the crown of her head. "It says that we
will always have work to do, Scully. No matter
what happens next, we must always be vigilant and
look where no one else dares."
the end
Author's notes: There is a lot of factual information
in this story. I want to acknowledge some articles I
dug up on the internet about the Crenshaw Mansion
at Hickory Hill. The Daily Egyptian, fall 2003
edition has a wonderful article on the house.
http://newshound.de.siu.edu/fall03/stories/storyRea
der$539
Clarence Bonnell gives a nicely detailed account of
the Crenshaws and the house on the
illinoishistory.com site
http://www.illinoishistory.com/osh-loststory.html
Bill Furry did a lengthy article for the Illinois Times
in 1997
http://www.illinoishistory.com/itosh.html
And finally, the house was featured in Brian
Roesch's Haunted Illinois (scroll down to
'Shawneetown')
http://www.webspawner.com/users/hhaauunntteeddi
llino/
But last and certainly not least, I have to thank the
former owners of the house, the Sisk family, who
gave me a guided tour of the premises. It was when
I first saw the bed that Lincoln supposedly slept in
(just as I describe it here) that I got the inspiration
for this story.
PS, many of the pictures used for the illustrations
are pictures of the actual house and the surrounding
county. Those pictures can be found on the Virtual
Season 12 website at http://virtualseasonx.org/season-12/